“She’s incorrigible.”
“I hear you,” she sang out, focusing on her toes again.
“I like her.” Kieran sounded faintly surprised by that. “She has spirit.”
Cordelia preened. “Tell him he’s correct. And tell him I want my portrait done. A large one. And I want it to hang in the ballroom. If the lighting’s right, I’ll look luminous.”
When I passed that along, Kieran grinned. “Luminous, noted.”
“And I want a gold frame,” she said. “Not silver. Silver makes me look washed out.”
“Does she plan to redecorate the entire kingdom or just the castle?” he asked.
“Both,” I said, passing along her words. “And possibly your wardrobe. She’s not a fan of black.”
“Then she’s in for disappointment.” He smoothed his sleeve. “All I own is black.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
“So black it is,” he said.
I grunted. “Of course you’d defend your aesthetic.”
“My aesthetic hides blood stains.”
“How convenient.”
“I haven’t always worn black,” he said.
Cordelia gasped, her hand pressed to her chest. “He ownsother colors?”
I rolled my eyes. “I suspect not.”
Kieran shook his head after I told him what she was saying. “The dead are terribly judgmental.”
“You have no idea,” I said.
Cordelia floated down from her perch to hover in front of us. “Your husband is handsome, though. I’ll give him that. Brooding. Tragic. The sort of man who looks like he keeps melancholy poetry hidden in a locked drawer.” She fluttered her lashes. “The sort who probably writes stories about blood and moonlight.”
I told him what she said.
“I prefer essays on survival.” Kieran showed a hint of fang when he smiled. “But Idon’twrite poetry.”
“Not even short ones?” she asked, tilting her head, me relaying her side of the conversation.
“I’m afraid not,” he said.
“Then you should start. Nothing redeems a brooding man faster than emotional vulnerability and a touch of verse.”
“Noted,” he said gravely. “I’ll add it to my royal duties along with outfitting myself in a color other than black.”
“While you’re at it, pick your wife some flowers,” Cordelia said. “Not those pathetic ones they prop up in vases in the front hall. Real ones. With thorns.”
I rolled my eyes. “Cordelia, I’m not telling him your romantic advice.”
“I’m helping.”
